On the way home they’d stop for ice cream. Sonja would have one with chocolate and Ove one with nuts.
Once a year the shop raised the price by one krona per ice cream and then, as Sonja put it, Ove would “have a tantrum.”
When they got back to the house she’d roll out the little terrace door onto the patio and Ove would help her out of the chair
and gently put her on the ground so she could do some gardening in her beloved flowerbeds.
In the meantime Ove would fetch a screwdriver and disappear into the house.
That was the best thing about the house. It was never finished. There was always a screw somewhere for Ove to tighten.
On Sundays they went to a café and drank coffee. Ove read the newspaper and Sonja talked.
And then it was Monday. And one Monday she was no longer there.
And Ove didn’t know exactly when he became so quiet. He’d always been taciturn, but this was something quite different.
Maybe he had started talking more inside his own head. Maybe he was going insane (he did wonder sometimes).
It was as if he didn’t want other people to talk to him, he was afraid that their chattering voices would drown out the memory of her voice.
He lets his fingers run gently across the gravestone, as if running them through the long tassels of a very thick rug.
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